


Otherworld

by bornforwar_archivist



Category: Xena: Warrior Princess
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-31
Updated: 2006-12-31
Packaged: 2019-08-01 23:22:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16293854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bornforwar_archivist/pseuds/bornforwar_archivist
Summary: By CarlyOnly one can remember Xena so long after she died.





	Otherworld

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Delenn, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Born For War](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Born_For_War), which closed in 2015. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in March 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Born For War collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bornforwar).

She was cradled within my arms; the last I heard of her was a sigh. I didn’t move, but slowly she was gone from me; and not only her, but the mountains surrounding us, and the sun, whose glow had seemed to fill the earth as it left it.

 

The scene faded; colours growing more pale, sounds becoming dim. There was nothing at all, and I was nothing.

 

Nothing.

 

Except, a moment later, I found myself walking briskly down a corridor, heading towards a flight of stairs. It was something like a narrow hallway, made of grey stone, without windows; and oddly enough without lanterns, either, although it was light enough for me to see. When I turned my head back, I saw the hall stretched so far behind me that I could not see where it led.

 

I had no memory of anything beyond the fading image of Gabrielle’s last goodbye, when I’d explained my choice. I wanted to die, so that at last all the things I’d done would be undone. Even then I’d been kind of hazy on how that could be achieved; but I believed it could. Now, I wondered. Was I did, or was this another trick of the gods, some new afterlife I had yet to learn of?

 

As a child I had only ever been told of Elysium, the fields of joy where children played and laughed, where only light and love existed. Later, there were whispers or threats of another place called Tartarus. The world of the dead was beneath us. It made sense to me.

 

But there are many worlds of the dead. Many, many lands. Sometimes I think there are more places for the dead than the living, just as there are so many ways to die. I have gone with grief to the lands of the Amazon dead, I have watched with bitter laughter the lagging legs of a warrior on his way to Valhalla. I know that not all the dead are beneath us; because I have flown with angels and demons in a land beyond clouds.

 

_There are so many worlds of the dead._

 

I hadn’t realised I had spoken out loud, until I heard the echo; and I hadn’t realised that I had reached my destination until I looked around, startled at the sound of my own voice. Hesitating at the top of the stairs, I waited, before stepping out into a large empty room. Like the hallway it was made from grey stone, and yet it did not feel cold or dark. I could see no doors.

 

_The dead have their own worlds, yes._

 

I jumped.

 

A woman stepped out to me, as though she had appeared from behind a door or a screen, rather than thin air. She held out both hands to me, her body draped in pale apricot silk, her dark hair bundled up away from her face. She had a kind face.

 

_And this is another one?_

 

I spoke roughly – but the woman shook her head.

 

_You’ve returned from death many times. You’ve gone back to the land of the living from every land of the dead. But there’s nothing left of you now to go back with. The dead fade, Xena._

 

I frowned, not understanding; but then a memory came to me, of the lands I had seen, the people who had been there. Sometimes I had wondered why they had not been filled with thousands more people, why it seemed I knew so many of them.

 

_The dead fade. Once memory of them grows dim, when at last there is not the least soul who recalls the person they once were. From Elysium, Tartarus, Heaven and Hell; from Valhalla and the land of the Amazon dead. The dead fade._

 

If this was no land of the dead . . . I realised, then, that I was in no place at all. To me it seemed a room of stone; but to the lady it was probably a corner of her mind, or the space between her finger and thumb. No place – and no place for the dead. I had been drawn into this other world for other reasons; but it was not the place I belonged.

 

_The dead fade._

 

I saw, from the corner of my right eye, something flicker. And yet it was not light, but total darkness – and something like silence, if such a thing could be seen. Part of the wall in that room was being overtaken by a growing quietude. And there was something inside me that drew me; something within me that longed for that particular kind of quiet.

 

_And where do they go thence?_

 

_Out like a candle, or like the shadows destroyed when sunlight enters a room._

 

I knew what I saw, then, to the right of me – it was Oblivion, that Callisto had once sought, giving everything she had for the hope of it. I had never understood its lure, but now –

 

_Why am I still here, then?_

 

_One still remembers you._

 

Gabrielle. I could still remember the look on her face – the hurt. I could still remember holding her, and then feeling her fade from my arms.

 

_Gabrielle passed long ago – she entered the Amazon lands with joy, meeting her sisters there. But she is forgotten; her words are still spoken, but there is no one who still remembers who Gabrielle was._

 

The woman spoke to me softly, patiently; I saw she would never know what a gift her words were to me.

 

_Eve, then. My Evie . . ._

 

_She passed and went to Eli; and all who remembered her have gone. She is forgotten._

 

I frowned. Who then yet remained? The child Centaur I had helped deliver? Some Amazon baby?

 

_There is none of the Centaur tribe who can recall you now, none of the Amazon tribe, though both revere you in stories and song. Yet you – you yourself – are forgotten._

 

The ancient tribes lived. Each word she spoke was a treasure, and yet I was still confused.

 

_Then I don’t understand. If all have passed on – passed further than I, into this oblivion – who yet remembers me? Who could have survived so long?_

 

The woman paused, then. I looked at her, standing still in the centre of something I called a room, but which perhaps looked quite different to this one.

 

_Immortals do not remember the names of man. So many pass before them, day by day by day. If they were to hold memory of all those who have gone they would hold nothing else. Immortals are not supposed to remember man – nor woman._

 

I knew.

 

The world had moved on. Time had gone by, so much time unimaginable to me. Everyone who had known me – and their children, and their children after them – were dead and gone. And yet he remained.

 

_Ares remembers me._

 

_Yes. And as long as you are remembered, you cannot pass. The dead hear the thoughts of the living . . . the dead live because of the thoughts of the living. You can never seek Oblivion until you are forgotten. He must forget._

 

This, then was redemption.

 

I had not understood before. I thought that if I did enough good, my evil deeds would pale before them; but that was not so. I thought that if I did a great deed, one that led to my death, then my evil would be undone before it; but that was not so.

 

My redemption was that everyone had forgotten. Those who had been hurt, who had hurt others because of what I had done – they were all dead, they had passed, they had been forgotten. All the evil I had done was gone. Time was my redemption.

 

_What must I do?_

 

_Go to him. He must give you his memories. Only then – will you be free._

 

 

*********

 

I would not have done it for the woman. I would not have done it for myself, even though I sought Oblivion now with a fervour only Callisto had known. But as soon as I saw his face, I knew I would do it for him.

 

He sat lonely on his throne, his face haggard and worn, as though a god could age, as though a god could know the ravages of time. But it was not age, weariness, or time which had eaten him away; it was decades of grief, years of bitter mourning. He wore it hard.

 

I had been to Olympus before, and it had been charged with an atmosphere of upcoming doom. The pillars had shaken with it, the walls had shuddered.

 

Now, as I walked through the halls of the gods, I felt no such atmosphere. It was quiet and empty, and – finished. It was as though the flesh of the place had withered; and I was passing by the weathered bones.

 

_Ares is the last of the gods, then?_

 

I had watched him on his throne – the woman had allowed me that, before she sent me to him.

 

_The others are forgotten, and their gifts are now spread equally over the earth. But Ares –_

 

_Until he forgets me, I cannot forget him._

 

I understood. Neither he nor I could embrace Oblivion, and the redemption it held, until we forgot. I had lingered a moment at his image on the throne, wondering, amazed. So much time had passed and yet he mourned.

 

Now, as I walked through the ancient halls, I wondered what I could do to make him forget. How could we ever forget one another? He had said it to me once – that he burned within me. I could not deny it then, and it was still true. How to quench such a flame, fed for so many years?

 

I wondered how I would approach him – to hesitate, to cry out, to stride up to him boldly. As it happened, I did not need to decide. I turned to the left, towards the Great Hall, and rounding the corner collided with his body, crashing to the ground.

 

_Watch it, idiot -_

 

_Watch yourself!_

 

We scrambled up, glaring at one another. And slowly our faces changed. He lost all expression, as though he was afraid he was going mad. I opened my mouth to speak, but could think of nothing. We were only ideas by then, scarcely real, but what I saw of even his faded glory shook me. It was like drinking the best wine, expecting only water.

 

I began to forget immediately, forget purpose, forget myself entirely. I stepped forward and laid a hand more gently on his arm. My hand firm on his firm arm. His eyes narrowed a little, as though he was struggling to see. Then he moved forward, quickly, embracing me as though I was about to be torn away. He still didn’t believe I was real . . .

 

Except that ideas are real – memories are real enough to keep the dead alive longer than they should.

 

I didn’t think of all that then, enclosed within his arms. Listening to his struggling breath, his speeding heartbeat. His arms were tight around me, and his face was buried in my shoulder. He lifted it, finally, looking at me.

 

_Xena._

 

I forgot I had died when he kissed me; he forgot I had ever been gone. Immediately we were back a thousand years to our first tentative kiss on a mountain top, where we’d silently admitted the possibility of love. Immediately we were back to a temple where not even an explosion could distract us from the heat of our bodies moving together. Immediately we were back to a dream, so far from real that we forgot real existed at all.

 

_I love you . . ._

 

His sighed words led us to a rainy night, where he’d declared his love with such joy.

 

_I love you . . . I love you . . . I love you . . ._

 

He loved me, then – and I loved him, now. My words carried us away from past and from memory, from who we had been to who we were. And we forgot that there had ever been else but this moment, this Xena this Ares this kiss this love.

 

And there is nothing else.

 

_this Xena this Ares this kiss this love . . ._

 

 

 


End file.
